Frightening Verse
by Bible
Summary: (PewDieCry) Ryan won't eat. Felix finds out. TRIGGER WARNING: anorexia, self harm.
1. Chapter 1

"Hey, can you go for another round? I've got a birthday on Saturday and need something to post; if I get it edited by then, I mean."

It's 3am. Ryan looks down at the bag of carrots he brought into the room to eat before bed, so that he could get up in the morning. They're pressed up against the plastic of the small bag and it reminds him of dogs in a shelter - their muzzles squeezing against the cold glass, breath fogging up the transparent surface. Hope abreast in their dark eyes. He throws the food on his unmade bed.

He can eat later.

* * *

"Yeah, sure."

"Why doesn't Cry ever show his face?"

The words print out on the screen and Ryan's fingers twitch to the mask covering his features, feeling its smooth edge give out to rough locks of hair. He can't remember the last time he showered, though he really should. He doesn't like it, though, the awareness of his lumbering form below him, the starkness of scars and scabs and the harsh sting of reality which could just be the shampoo in his eyes. Or something dumb like that.

There's a burst of text - people agreeing, defending, changes of topics. Ryan's flicks through it all, listening to the low hum of someone's voice. It's late, or early - he can't be sure, and distinguishing who's speaking is more of a chore than hours before. Words slip into each other, blurring little by little till consonants could be vowels in a flick of an eye.

"Cry?"

He clears his throat.

"Yeah?"

"Are you alright?" Felix sounds vaguely concerned, and Ryan feels inexplicably guilty.

"Yes, friend. Just a little tired. May have to head off to sleep." There's a flurry of text, blocking out the talk of his mask, and Ryan's vaguely aware of something being said in return before he clicks off the live stream and is faced with the blank expanse of his desktop background. It's a sudden silence and it's profoundness reflects on his buzzing mind, penetrating the fog of exhaustion. He feels like he should be having a revelation, an epiphany; anything to fill the sudden emptiness that stretches on and on like the rolls of his fat.

Instead he reaches for the power down button and doesn't fall asleep for the next five hours.

* * *

**A/N:**

This is just a teaser chapter, to test the waters. Anyone interested aha?


	2. Chapter 2

He used to eat a lot when he was younger. He remembers because there are flashes of tables of food and puffy cheeks and the overpowering coating sensation of chocolate in his mouth when he sleeps some nights. They're the nights he wakes up in a sweat, his sticky folds of fat exacerbating the problem , and they're the nights he opens the hungry fridge to stare.

It's always empty (like him, a part of him whispers in his mind) and it's a small comfort to know that even if he was hungry, he couldn't eat as much as he wanted to. As much as the clawing sensation in his stomach begged him to. It's strangely satisfying to deprive himself, to know he has that much control, but at even a hint of pride Ryan quickly beats himself down.

Stupid.

Worthless.

_Fat._

He shouldn't be proud of himself for not eating. He's been eating fatty, disgusting foods all his life and making himself, in turn, fat and disgusting. There's no pride in losing weight, only shame at having to do it. Only hatred he let himself get this _big_.

He wishes his mask covered his entire body.

It's hard to get out of bed the following morning, fatigue pulling uneasily at Ryan's every limb. His brain feels as if covered by a heavy, wooly blanket - his senses dulled and his movements clumsy. He should have eaten those carrots last night, only four calories per piece. There were six baby carrots in the back - twenty-four calories all together. That wasn't so bad, right?

A pain in his stomach abruptly makes itself known, and Ryan curls into it where he sat in his bed, half up, now leaning over it as the aches ripple throughout his abdomen. It's a spiking sensation where it's at its worse, painting his mind with images of an empty, flesh coloured abyss inside, clenching down on the nothing contained within. Empty.

The pain subsides eventually, leaving Ryan collapsed on his bed, teeth dug into his hand and tear tracks running small rivers down his pale cheeks. He feels hollow, like the used shell of a bullet. He's tired, so fucking tired - the kind sleep can't fix. The kind that pulls at the shadows under his eyes and the kind that sucks the life from his skin, his hair, his soul.

The world seems very grey, that morning.

Ryan gets up anyway, eventually, because that's just _what people do_. Get up, carry on, earn money, buy a house, smile at your friends, ignore that gaping abyss inside and complain about taxes with your polite, bland co-workers while a TV in the background shows a nuclear missile obliterate an entire city.

So Ryan pulls himself up, shrugs on a loose jumper and dark grey jeans, and stares at the patch of utterly featureless wall to the right of his computer screen, blankly noticing it's raining outside. He likes the rain - it's nice. If his life were a movie, the rain would be his soundtrack. He tries to smile to himself at that, coercing a small twitch from his lips but it feels stiff and soulless, like everything does these days, and he quickly lets the expression drop.

Letting out a deep sigh, he types in his login details and listens to the insistent pitter-patter of rain as it hits against the windows. Skype opens up and he duly notes a few people online, reminding him he needs to have some video material by tomorrow, if Felix is going to use everything they filmed last night - which he probably will. He's weary to the bone but still clicks off to Steam to take a note of what games he could play when the eerie sound of a Skype call begins.

**Felix** **Kjellberg calling…**


End file.
